“But I’m still sorry.”
For a moment neither of us moved.
Then Claire reached for my hand.
Not forgiveness.
Not completely.
But not rejection either.
Something quieter.
Something fragile enough to survive only if handled honestly from now on.
As we drove home through the glowing evening traffic, my phone remained silent in the center console.
No calls from my mother.
No messages.
That silence hurt more than I expected.
But beside me, Claire rested one hand over her stomach while the other remained loosely intertwined with mine across the space between us.
And for the first time in years—
I finally understood which silence mattered more.
Note: This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names, characters, and details have been altered. Any resemblance is coincidental. The author and publisher disclaim accuracy, liability, and responsibility for interpretations or reliance. All images are for illustration purposes only.
